


Acceptable Loss

by Zaniida



Series: Completed Chapterfics (MCU) [1]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: (Much), Angst, Bittersweet Ending, But when is he not?, Gen, I think astolat has a hotline to my muse, Loki Whump, Loki's a bit of a woobie, Tearjerker, Trying to fight the inevitable, Ye gods, and I'm not complaining about that, mascara alert, the angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 05:19:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18276593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida
Summary: InChaos War, Thor drags Loki back to Asgard, and Loki is initially under the impression that he's about to be sacrificed for the good of the kingdom.  That isn't, ultimately, why Odin called him home (and wouldn't take no for an answer).But I can't let a good plot bunny go to waste.





	1. Iph

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HeartsOfStone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartsOfStone/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Chaos War](https://archiveofourown.org/works/243244) by [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat). 



> **Note:** [Bargaining](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108212/chapters/2230369) (by proantagonist) is a fic I got pointed at after drafting almost 100% of this fic. The profound similarities are either coincidence, or a clear example of how archetypes work on the human brain. I thoroughly recommend the fic, if you're able to take the heart-rending angst of it all; it's incredibly well plotted and really puts Loki through his paces. I'm putting off reading the final chapter, just so I can stew in this delightfully horrible mess of emotions that had me sobbing on my bed a few hours ago -- and so I can put those emotions to use finishing up this fic as well.
> 
>  **Content Warning:** The fourth chapter is likely to get pretty graphic. I'm not yet sure how I'd label it, and I'm not sure you could skip it entirely without losing a good deal of what makes this idea so powerful, so be forewarned; when it comes to the key moment, I'm not gonna downplay the act itself (though it'll be largely in keeping with the kind of internal POV that I used in _Mirror_ \-- more focus on how things feel (both physically and emotionally), less focus on the physical act being performed).
> 
> (Other than that, it's mostly just various levels of angst, and a lot of back-and-forth, trying to fight the inevitable… and the ending might surprise you.)
> 
> * * *
> 
> So… the Muse is a harsh mistress, much as I value her hand guiding mine. I had all these wonderful plans to put together POI fics, several long overdue and one with a key deadline fast approaching…
> 
> …and then I was browsing astolat's sampler, and happened across _Chaos War_ , and I opened it and started skimming and there went my entire evening well into the morning as the Muse sunk her claws in _deep_.
> 
> You know how a couple of my fics, most notably the short tragic ones like _I don't want this body to hurt anyone_ and _Harold Would Have Thanked Him_ , have sprung to my head pretty much fully formed and rarin' to go? This is like that, only it's five chapters long and absolutely _wallows_ in the angst, and it got _almost_ fully formed in the space of about four days, which is not typical of my rough drafts, not by a long shot.
> 
> You ever have the Muse sit down with a gun to your head, just kinda hanging out there next to the computer with one leg casually draped over the other, and you're like "but I have all these important things that I need to do first" and she's like "They'll wait; you need to write this. Immediately" and then sticks a tentacle up your ear until there is nothing left in your brain except (a) the fic she intends for you to write and (b) the overwhelming need to consume every possible piece of fan works you can consume to further the cause of writing the fic in the first place?
> 
> Seriously, I haven't been able to focus on any other pursuit _at all_ , not even the non-fic ones. I have like fifty Loki vids on my phone now, and have consumed quite a few Loki fics, and read up on wikis, and when I am lying down, or in the shower, or washing dishes, or working out, my brain is going over the ins and outs of this fic like it's the only thing in my life that will ever matter.
> 
> Might I point out that _I haven't even seen the [expletive deleted] movies?!_ (I've seen bits and pieces, mostly of _Ragnarok_ , while donating blood plasma, but I have yet to really sit down and enjoy any single film in the MCU. Given that my brain invents scenarios to fill in incomplete information, the whole "in bits and pieces, out of order, out of context, and often without subtitles so I don't know any of the dialog" may actually have set this up in the first place.) I've got plans to start going through the MCU, have wanted to for a long time, but the fic is not waiting that long.
> 
> Being caught up in the Muse this way is exhilarating and frustrating and terrifying, and yet I hope I encounter it repeatedly throughout my life, because _man_ do I love how this is turning out. Let us angst away!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In his absence, the war has been raging over a long four years, and in all that time he has found only the one spell, the one _forbidden_ spell, from the book he lifted from Odin’s hidden collection, the one he was never supposed to know about.
> 
> Now, of course, he knows why Odin hid it so carefully.

_There is a part of Loki that will always be a son of Asgard_.

* * *

Staring bleakly across the room, Loki runs numb fingers over the book in his lap, his gift for imagery a cruel talent these past few days: The tale’s already inside him, vivid in his mind’s eye, inescapable.

It’s not even Norse mythology; he’s long done with those, having scoured the flawed, incomplete, and out-of-focus collection that the Midgardians have put together, scoffing at their misapprehensions of the nature of Asgard, of the Aesir who live there. He’s moved on to Greek tragedies, pulling in a few new tricks to add to his repertoire (for all the good it might do him). In another time, he might have found the task a passable enjoyment, let the fates of these foolish mortals (and even more foolish gods) amuse him for a while.

Of late, though, his life has gotten so bound up in tragedy that it’s hard to find even fleeting joy in… anything. Just weary resignation and restless energy, waiting for an outlet. Counting down to the inevitable, and wondering just how much he’ll struggle before the end.

 _Iphigenia_. The tale of a king who kills his daughter to win a war. It’s the king’s fault, of course; that part’s all too familiar, a king who cares nothing for his children except as bargaining pieces, and who leads his country to ruin through his own arrogance. And the girl—this Iphigenia, barely old enough to wed, soft and weak and helpless—pays for it with her life.

 _He_ is not—Loki _knows_ that he’s not soft, or weak, or helpless. _Was I not born to power?_ Born a frost giant, raised as one of the Aesir, forced to compensate for his deficiencies by covering fear with bravado, turning pain into motivation, mastering spellcraft and misdirection. Of all the mortals who dwell on his brother’s favorite world, could _any_ of them hold up under the assaults that he’s endured in over a thousand humiliating years? Could any match him for durability or strength, speed or cunning? Whether Odinson or Laufeyson, he’s not—he’s not like _them_ , he is not _weak_.

Not at the mercy of forces outside his control. He’s the master of trickery, the god who always has a plan, who charms and manipulates, who squirms his way out of the consequences for almost anything he’s ever done—not to mention a lot that others have done, where the consequences have unfairly fallen on _his_ shoulders. Surely he should be able to find a way around this. He’s not waiting around for death, waiting to be slaughtered at the cusp of his power, what should have been the prime of his life.

‘ _Strong-born_ ’ indeed, little Iphigenia. Life and birthright subject to the whims of her father, ripped away to pay for her father’s crimes.

He’s suffered that twice over, and why _in Tyr’s name is he finding points of commonality with a miserable, helpless human girl_ —

The book hits the wall before he’s even aware that he’s thrown it, and Loki curls into the chair, covering his face with one hand, the other pressed to his aching heart, shoulders shaking although he refuses to make a sound. Not for this. This final betrayal, this betrayal that is _meant_ to be _final_ , this isn’t going to be the thing that breaks him, he can’t—he **_won’t_** let himself be more of a wretch than she was, even if there’s no one here to see it but the rats.

 

In his absence, the war has been raging over a long four years, and in all that time— _more_ time, in point of fact, since Midgard’s clock runs faster than Asgard’s, and he’s brought all the research materials he can find to this pathetic hovel he’s been squatting in, not even bothering to pretty up the place with illusions—he has found only the one spell, the one _forbidden_ spell, from the book he lifted from his fath—from _Odin_ ’s hidden collection, the one he was never supposed to know about.

Now, of course, he knows why Odin hid it so carefully.

Before opening the Wyrddenning, Loki had been searching for a way to save Asgard; despite everything, it was still his home, and its people his own. Those two truths haven’t changed, no matter how fervently he protests them at times. But, since that day, he’s been seeking any possible out, any hope of a path leading anywhere but the knife, and all he’s found are chains binding him ever more tightly to this unshakable destiny. Despairing, he’s turned to myths, hoping that they might offer a clue that the more factual material lacks, and then, when that foolish thought had been driven from his head, that they might at least bolster his courage to face the inevitable.

This tale, this is the one that speaks to him. Dozens of times he’s journeyed through these pages, reading between the lines to see, dark and hidden, the experience of the girl. The girl so central to the tale that it bears her name, and yet who merits barely a footnote against the powerful figures who trick her into attendance and then argue over her fate until, finally, her innocent expectations ripped away, she plays the only role she’s allowed to play. Until she walks to the altar with dignity rather than be dragged to it by force, and meekly accepts the fate that she cannot avoid. The only choice left to her.

Now that he can see the necessity, he’s been trying to come to terms with it, but he’s not certain that he’s any closer than when he started. Exhaustion dogs his steps; he’s been at this for months without letup, often without sleep, and he’s tired of running, all this scrabbling around trying to evade this fate… a dragonfly caught in gossamer threads, every frantic motion doing nothing to free him, only ripping apart his too-fragile wings.

The war rages, and all the forces of Asgard—all of Odin’s wisdom and Thor’s strength and the boundless courage of their people—aren’t putting so much as a dent in the hordes that keep ravaging their lands. Optimism wears thin, and Loki, although he cannot see the future, can see at least the patterns—that’s how he operates, and he wishes he could turn it off, because every pattern that he can perceive implies a future that he cannot bear to think of.

Two of them, really. Neither one acceptable.

If Asgard falls, the nine realms will soon follow. That’s a foregone conclusion: It is Asgard that stands between the realms and any threats that arise, and there is no other force that comes anywhere near their strength of purpose. And Odin, the All-Father, is burdened with the task of defending their people— _his_ people, the Aesir above all else—even if, at times, that requires him to resort to darker measures. That’s why he _keeps_ artifacts like the Wyrddenning, why he doesn’t just destroy them outright: There may come a time when they are needed. Loki is no stranger to pragmatic solutions; did he not try, once, to destroy all of Jotunheim?

 _Would I have stopped, had the price of victory included Thor’s life?_ Despite everything he’d done to his brother that day, all the tricks and lies, their heated battle, the hatred he’d screamed in his face… he couldn’t imagine taking a killing blow. Neither of them had fought at full strength, not even with that much at stake. If Odin had caught _him_ instead of Thor, if it had been Thor dangling from the end of Gungnir… he’d never have let go, could never have let his brother fall into the abyss.

 _Not even to save all of Asgard?_ He can make illusions to fool all manner of people, but the deep truths he can’t really hide from himself. When all conventional means of attack have failed, you take the desperate measures or you die. At that point, honor itself is suicidal; Loki can _almost_ find it in himself to sympathize.

Sparing Iphigenia would have fueled a civil war; her death at least kept the war far from their shores, though it was not without its toll. And Loki… if Loki lives, there will be no shelter for anyone. Within a few years, perhaps no more than a few months, it will all be over; it might seem longer on Midgard, but Midgard will fall just the same.

 _But if I die_ …

He swallows heavily. The spell is no small matter, and he can admire the craft behind it, even if not the means: The shield it creates would defend the nine realms from the invaders for centuries. Where the death of one human girl had spread misery, the death of one Jotun foundling might well create a lasting peace for his—for the Aesir and beyond. If he looks for hope, for some purpose to this madness, then that is all he is likely to get.

Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath and tries to center himself. Tries to let go of the hope for a throne, for a future, for a chance to make his father proud. Tries not to think of his father at all. Pushes away thoughts of Valhalla, never having settled in his mind if it had ever really been open to him; even the most glorious death might not matter when you had been born into a race of monsters. Regardless, neither Valhalla nor Freyja’s fields were ever going to welcome him in. Thor, certainly, but not him. Even if he hadn’t screwed up this badly, proven his unworthiness… even if he’d done everything right, the stories that he’s been raised on had been nothing more than another calculated lie.

With a tired wave, he pulls the book back to him, then casually fixes the spine and holds it in his lap, hands trembling on the cover. It’s the most charitable version he’s found of the tale, wherein the gods show compassion to the girl and whisk her away bodily instead of letting her die. An addition to make the tale more palatable; he’s seen many variants that tone down the myths to make mortals feel a little better about the stories that they read, as if reality were ever so kind.

The truth is, nothing saves Iphigenia.

But someone does _try_.

It’s not hard to see Thor in this _Achilles_ : a brash warrior, much beloved, loyal to a fault but caring for little beyond the glory of battle. Relentlessly vengeful, whenever anything threatens the people or principles that he holds dear. While the Queen argues for compassion, for family— _he can’t think of Frigga, not when he’s this close to losing the razor-thin hold on his self-control_ —Achilles argues for honor over pragmatism, and vows to defend the girl at all cost, refusing to allow the barbarous act.

(Of course, it’s not like Achilles cares anything for the girl; he’s simply upset at being used. Loki’s all too familiar with _that_ bitterness.)

If Thor is with him, he thinks—if Thor stands on his behalf, then even if—even if it’s madness, even if it’s the end of his days, if this is all that was ever meant for him, at least he could find it somewhat bearable.

But if Thor is against him too… if Thor knows what Odin has been planning, agrees with him… if all that brotherly affection was just one more trick to bind him to Asgard, or—even worse—if it _had_ been real, but Loki’s own actions have destroyed it, lost him that possibility forever… he thinks he might just break right down the middle.

And it’s killing him not to _know_.

 

When the alarms ring out in his head, it’s almost a relief: the end of all the hiding, the waiting. He closes his eyes, extends his seidr a little, takes measure of their forces: Thor, of course, and Sif, and a handful of warriors. Enchanted nets, more than enough for the weakest of them to take him down if he gets in range.

There are ways to slip the net, even now. Before they get inside. Tired as he is, Loki could keep going, stretch the chase out for weeks… maybe years. Midgardian years, while his golden homeland sees the sun set a few dozen times; the war won’t progress fast enough for that to make a difference, and surely Odin took that into account in the timing. Surrender isn’t his only option, not yet.

But the question lies heavy on his heart: _Does he know?_ Odin sent him here, that’s clear enough. Does Thor realize _why?_ What Odin has been planning?

Before anything else, Loki wants the answer to his question, and maybe that’ll be enough to decide for him what his next step might be. How to meet this fate, and how much to struggle. Because if Thor _knows_ —

Behind his illusive mask, his face crumples a little. He doesn’t want to think that his brother could—could agree with Odin on this. That his last possible ally is gone… or was never an ally to begin with.

Not that it matters, either way. If Thor stands up for him against the will of Odin… there are no good ends to that path. Thor getting executed, maybe, if he wouldn’t let it go; perhaps a combat in the throne room that kills them both and leaves Asgard unguarded anyway, to no gain. At the very best possible outcome for Loki alone, he escapes and spends a few miserable years trying to ignore the death of his homeworld before the protection of Asgard crumbles and the invaders reach out to consume everything he, or anyone else, has ever cared about—

No, there’s only one way this ends. _And it’s too late to not be here_ , he thinks morosely, as the wall caves in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Addendum:** Having browsed TV Tropes (finally letting myself do that; I've been avoiding it), it does appear that Loki did sorta murder Thor in the first film? I am torn between (a) rewriting my assertion against fratricide up there, so Loki better understands the need to sometimes take drastic steps, or (b) going by the explanation I read in one fic, where Loki had forgotten that Thor's body was mortal and thus didn't expect a kill order to, y'know, kill.
> 
> Think I'll go with the latter for now. Might come tinker with this a bit later to make that more clear.
> 
> * * *
> 
> News-wise: The Muse commands; the writer can only obey. I have no idea if I'll be able to sneak other fics in between chapters of this, but I haven't fully moved on to the Loki fandom (although I'm certainly invested in it now); I still intend to finish my POI work (and have some other POI pieces yet to write).
> 
> It does not appear that I have any chance of writing a Control and/or Michael Cole fic like I had hoped to write this month, but oh well. Can't do everything. I do have a piece that I hope to get up early next month, but no idea if I'll be able to.
> 
> The website I'm creating, which I hope to turn into a front end for all of my various projects (so it'll be easier for you guys to navigate my writing), as well as a place for me to write essays and such and possibly host a podcast of sorts, has also gone on hiatus while I work through the Muse's orders. I've been trying to master the basics of creating a website that'll work on both PC screens and phone screens, and isn't that a fun new thing to work with now that phones are the most common way of viewing incidental websites? Ah well.
> 
> Incidentally, this is now my favorite workout vid: [The Other Side](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ncI6c9YGx0), an outstanding song to begin with, and even better when comparing Thor and Loki and the character arc that Loki undergoes across _Thor_ , _The Avengers_ , _Thor 2_ , and _Thor: Ragnarok_ (hope I got that reasonably straight).
> 
> So, guess the sum total of this announcement is: I haven't given up on anything, but it's possible I've gotten a little burnt out and it may be a little while before I get back to my POI work. Stubbornly working through projects just because I consider them important does not seem to lead to those projects getting finished in a timely manner, but perhaps a little time off (doing something so unlike my current work) may refresh me for the next leg of the writing.
> 
> (Original News, which incorrectly posted at end of full fic): Working my way through the MCU. I've watched _Thor_ and _The Avengers_ , and should be watching _Thor: The Dark World_ soon enough. Mostly sticking to the Thor side of things, since I can't manage to watch 100% of the MCU before _Endgame_ is out of theaters, and I really do want to watch _Endgame_ on the big screen, after having watched at least one set of movies leading up to it.
> 
> Currently in the midst of cutting and splicing the first MCU episode of _No Retakes_ , so that's fun too. Should be up this week, if all goes well.


	2. Barriers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You know why I’m here,” Thor counters_.
> 
>  _But does_ Thor _know why he’s here? Why Odin sent him?_
> 
>  _Because the task couldn’t be delegated: No one else would make Loki pause long enough to be captured_.
> 
> _And the truth is, whether Thor is witting or not, Loki wants him to bear the memory of dragging his own brother in to Odin for the kill. If he’s witting, let it burden him for the rest of his days, and on into Valhalla. If not…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Seidkona (pl. Seidkonur):** Norse mages, near as I can tell from a quick look into the idea. Generally a female trait; males didn't delve into that type of magic (except that Odin was a master in it), and those who tried were socially emasculated (even Odin). The -kona/konur part means "woman" and there's a corresponding male form for the few who dare.
> 
> You could mentally substitute "mages," but I thought a little culture color might be nice, and I've seen other fics use the term, or similar ones.

_“Hail, Grey Sisters,” Odin said, very steadily, and Thor swallowed; his father was **afraid**. “It is of the war I would speak with you; will you name your price for the answer to my question?”_  
_“Odin Allfather, loath are we to refuse an offer so rich with promise,” one of the women said. “But how high would you pay for an answer which is already in your heart?”_

_“My question is answered; we must return to Asgard as quickly as we may. And then you must go and bring your brother home.”_

_Odin at last broke his silence and said, “What question do you think I would have asked the Norns? What question would you have asked?”_  
_“How to win the war,” Thor said, unwillingly._  
_Odin nodded. “Take however many warriors you require.”_

* * *

As the dust settles and most of the insects scurry away, Loki turns to the illustration of Iphigenia before the altar. He wouldn’t say it’s his favorite page, but certainly the one he keeps returning to; he’s even put an image of himself in her place a time or two, just to see how well he might pull off the unwilling dignity of the moment.

Right now, he simply studies the page intently, because if he looks up at his brother, the possibilities are going to unravel him. Still, he manages—with that veneer of calm that he’s always been so good at—to say his brother’s name. “It’s always nice when family drops by to pay a visit… isn’t it?” Thankfully, his most basic “everything is fine” disguise holds back any hint of his true reactions, no matter how badly his control might slip.

There’s nothing hidden or subtle about Thor; when he asks “What are you doing here?” the disgust and horror and sorrow come across as plainly in his voice as, surely, in his expression. But Loki doesn’t know what to make of them. The horror and sorrow could easily be over the task he’s about to perform, but then, if that’s the context, the question makes no sense… unless, perhaps, it’s an odd expression of Thor’s dismay at having found him so easily. The disgust… well, for all his faults, Thor has never in his life looked on Loki with disgust. At least that’s something that Loki can cling to: He’d know if Thor truly hated him.

_Give up this poisonous dream! Come **home**._

A cockroach scuttles over Loki’s foot, and he belatedly recalls his circumstances. It’s all too easy for him to ignore his surroundings while he’s studying, but of course Thor would find this place unbearable; the most he’s ever had to put up with is a little unpleasant camping while they were off on adventures or campaigns—barren stone, or ice fields, or marshes. The truly darker places, the underbellies, are outside of his experience, and certainly nothing a royal prince of Asgard would ever _choose_ to stay in, even for a hiding place.

Sometimes Loki forgets that of the two of them, Thor has _less_ worldly experience, even though he’s lived three years for each of Loki’s two. Even when Thor was thrown down to Midgard, he’d found succor easily enough, because of course he did. By contrast, Loki’s been seeking out the dark and hidden places ever since he learned to cloak himself from Heimdall’s sight… and has, of late, gotten all too familiar with the permutations.

When finally Loki steels himself to meet Thor’s eyes, he doesn’t let any of that show. _What are you doing here?_ indeed. “Under the circumstances,” he muses softly, “I would really have to make a case for that question being properly mine… dear brother.”

“You know why I’m here,” Thor counters.

But does _Thor_ know why he’s here?

“Only in the most minimal sense,” Loki returns, and can’t help but poke at an obvious weak point: “I do wonder that you could be spared from the front at present, though.” There’s little that Thor hates so much as being sent off to handle bookkeeping or other duties that he sees as less important than being on the battlefield. Finding Loki, and bringing him home—Loki shuts his eyes again, takes a breath—that would be _especially_ grating to Thor, if he thought it was pointless, because he’d also know that it couldn’t be delegated: No one else would make Loki pause long enough to be captured.

“Don’t be an ass,” Thor says with a glare. “You don’t think this was my idea? Father sent me.”

“Ah,” Loki murmurs, unable to suppress the catch in his voice. It takes a good deal of strength to fight back the tears again, because he is right there on the edge of breaking, and nothing about this conversation has let him settle the matter of Thor’s true intentions. Under normal circumstances, he’d be able to word the exchange in such a way as to provoke the necessary information without revealing that he’d wanted it, but he can’t think straight, and he’s so very, very tired.

“Will you come?” Thor says, no nonsense in his voice, and Loki wonders if that’s enough of an answer for him. “Or are we going to have to do this the hard way?”

Glancing down at the image in the book again—Iphigenia, bound before the altar, the executioner’s knife at the ready—Loki contemplates just going along quietly, getting this over with. Or pretending to go along, but slipping off mid-transit.

He doesn’t have the patience for either option, today. And the truth is, whether Thor is witting or not, Loki wants him to bear the memory of dragging his own brother in to Odin for the kill. If he’s witting, let it burden him for the rest of his days, and on into Valhalla. If not… if he only discovers the plan once they’re in the throne room… perhaps the capture itself, the guilt of his complicity, will spur him on to make better arguments, if such are to be made. Or, if the debate can only be settled by arms, then to strengthen him for that.

Snapping the book shut, Loki lets himself grin in a parody of delight. “As charming as is the prospect of a visit home,” he says, briefly clasping his hands, “I am afraid I have some pressing engagements elsewhere; I really think I must decline.”

“The hard way, then,” Thor says, resignedly, and comes for him, scattering the insects in his wake.

Some illusions are so ingrained in Loki’s mind that he barely needs to focus on them anymore; he vaults backwards over the chair, still holding the book, and makes for the other side of the hall, while his brother grabs at thin air. But there’s no easy exit, not with Hothur taking up all the room, the net cutting off the pathway between his legs. It might have been simple enough to turn into an insect, to scuttle across the ceiling, tiny and invisible, but invisibility takes too long to adjust to new forms, and anyway Hothur is already reacting to his presence, pressing him back toward the main room.

Loki throws up a double without thinking, and heads for a different exit. The fact that Hothur focuses on the double, yet wasn’t fooled by his invisibility, seems odd, but he doesn’t have time to puzzle through exactly which counter-effect Thor has equipped them with. Whatever it is, Haskner and Rondo have it too, and they’re backing him into the room, and then there are warriors on every side of him, and the only one _not_ radiating bloodlust is his brother.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t realize that Thor is beside him until Thor catches his arm; startled, Loki turns to find him right there, those hard, familiar eyes burning into his, asking questions he doesn’t want to answer: Why is he fighting this? Why isn’t he coming _home?_

“I see,” he murmurs. “Father _really_ wants to see me.”

If he tells Thor—if he tries to persuade him—might Thor actually believe him for once? How could he? It’s too horrible to contemplate, this truth, and Thor’s not yet disillusioned about their father. And even if—even if—

Loki has long been irritated by Thor’s dull-headed obliviousness, and yet… whatever innocence Thor might yet have is going to shatter tonight, much as Loki’s did in the weapons vault when Odin admitted his true parentage. And as much as he would spare his brother the pain, the despair that he hides beneath every smile, there’s nothing Loki can do to keep this from happening, only delay it for a few moments before it all comes crashing down.

He doesn’t want to be the one to do it.

Almost without thinking, he slips into one of his latest forms, leaving behind a distraction of shimmering dust as he scuttles under the chair and shifts back to rat form, much more mobile than an insect (he hasn’t quite got the hang of insect flight, in any case).

They’re looking for him at every exit, and he cloaks himself before heading for the illusory wall, thoughts in turmoil, unwilling to settle into plan or conclusion, to weigh the alternatives. All he can think is to get out of there, get _out_ —

—except he brushes up against something he didn’t notice fast enough, and suddenly he’s turned over, lifted off his feet, unable to maintain his cloak, unable to shift into new forms, to break free or slip through the mesh, and he can’t help but writhe, uselessly: The strands carve numbness into his skin, reaching through and strangling the source of his magic, twisting his stomach into knots until he can barely focus on anything but the _nausea_ —

Striding through the fake wall, Sif hands the nets off to Thor, who glares at Loki before slinging him over his shoulder. Obviously he’s learned something, if he’s going to rely on the nets for transport as well as capture; Loki feels a rare stab of pride that his often dull-witted brother could actually think through the likely outcome of his actions.

As the team stalks out of the warehouse, Loki manages to turn over, and notices the book lying forgotten on the floor behind them. He draws in a small and shaky breath, sob-like, as Hothur’s foot lands unthinkingly on the book, breaking its spine.

* * *

The Bifrost _wrenches_ at him in this form, adding to the misery, but the trip from there to the palace is fast enough. After being rolled out of the nets at the foot of Odin’s throne, he pulls on his Aesir form like armor, mid-roll, and gets to his feet with speed and grace, because he is nothing if not capable of defying expectations. For a moment, though, he can’t meet Odin’s eyes, can’t handle that confirmation just yet, and so he masks it by straightening his clothes, brushing off his sleeves, taking in a full breath and straightening up with as much dignity as he can muster.

He’s gotten good at faking dignity. It’s the only kind he’s ever been afforded.

Then there’s nothing for it but to get this over with, and he faces Odin squarely. “Dear Father,” he says, and manages to sound, for the most part, like he isn’t fighting back the urge to scream. Of course, now that certain facts are out in the open, perhaps he’s claiming too much familiarity. “Or should I say—”

“Father,” Odin says quietly, and _oh_ , how Loki wishes he could take that at face value. But Odin All-Father is father to all _but_ Loki.

Still, he can let the charade continue for a few more minutes.

“Well, I’m here,” he notes, unable to hold back his disgust at how pleasant this all seems on the surface. How grand the throne room, how royal all these proceedings; even the seidkonur are in attendance, lined up along the walls in their most formal rune-covered robes, which adds an unwelcome weight to his theory. Well, he can play along with ceremony. “Thanks to my dear brother,” he adds, “and the escort that you so graciously provided,” and he bows to them with a grandiose sweep of his cape.

Then he faces Odin again, and now there’s no more stalling. “To what do I owe the honor of the invitation? I understand things haven’t been going very well.”

Holding Odin’s gaze, he silently dares him to offer an explanation other than the obvious. Daring him, perhaps, to be a bit like Loki, to bring out the lies and manipulations rather than admit, in front of all his adoring subjects, that he has brought his son home from exile only to be executed, and not even for any specific crime.

Because it can’t be anything else, can it? He’s long ago pushed aside that grand, impossible dream that his father might someday summon him to take the throne, but is it too late to hope for some other purpose? Some task that only Loki can accomplish, perhaps—because the rest of the warriors could never countenance the subtle arts, not the way that Loki could, that Loki felt like he was _born_ to them. Could Odin have found in him some worthiness that he never before appreciated, something that could help them win this war? Something that Loki, for all his studies (and he _has_ been studying), has yet to discover, or whose import he hasn’t yet realized?

When Odin stays silent too long, Loki finds he can’t; might as well cut straight to the quick. “There’s that spell in the Wyrddenning—”

“ _Loki!_ ” Odin says sharply.

“Ah, yes, it’s forbidden, isn’t it? And yet… there is a copy in the palace.” He makes a mock-thoughtful moue. “Not in the library, but—”

“What spell is this?” Thor asks, brow creased as he looks between them.

“It’s very impressive,” Loki says, studying his fath— _Odin_ ’s face, as if he might glean in it some remorse for what he’s about to do. “I can’t say that you’d appreciate it, brother, given how much you love a good war. But in the present circumstances, it might be our best hope: A spell to close off all the gaps in the borders, to cinch tight the rifts between worlds. The only way to travel among the Nine Realms would be along pathways like the Bifrost, or through the roots of Yggdrasil itself; no more random attacks at undefended locations.” He pauses to look back at Thor, see the dawning comprehension, the hope—“The first time it was cast,” Loki continues, “the protection lasted for twelve hundred years. A thousand years of peace, dear brother: Can you even imagine it?”

And Thor _is_ , clearly, and Loki feels a vicious little stab of glee at how thoroughly the truth is going to shatter that hope. Or taint it, at least—make Thor wish that the hope itself didn’t even exist.

“You’d lose your means of walking between worlds,” Thor muses, slowly, his brows drawing together as he reasons it out. “But going through Heimdall wouldn’t be such a burden for you, would it, brother?”

And _damn him_ , because Thor’s first thought is the effect this spell would have on Loki, and concern for Loki’s freedom, even now, even after bringing him back to Asgard in chains.

“Oh, I needn’t concern myself with _that_ , dear brother,” he counters, almost jovially—and then, before anyone here can imagine that it’s ever that simple, that pure, Loki pokes. “After all, the central ingredient is the still-beating heart of a frost giant sorcerer—”

“What?” Thor says, and grabs him by the arm, swinging him around to stare at him incredulously, the horror and pain writ large across his face. “You think we—you think _I_ would ever—”

And there it is, the answer he’d hoped for, and it doesn’t make a Hel-cursed speck of difference in the end. Because he’s weighed the cost too many times, these past few months, and he knows the point of the sacrifice. He might sell the world for Thor’s life—well, when he’s being generous, and not caught up in bitter rages as he sometimes is—but his own life is not worth Asgard. “If it meant saving all Asgard, and Midgard as well?” he challenges, and holds Thor’s gaze.

“ _No!_ ” Thor roars at him, shaking him hard. “You idiot!”

Being rattled back and forth in front of the throne by his lump-head of an older brother is not the sort of dignity he’d hoped to maintain through all of this, and it’s not making it easier not to sob. Struggling against Thor’s grip, he finally manages to wrench himself free, stumbling back a step and breathing hard.

He straightens, smoothing out his tunic with one hand, trying to regain himself, to pull back that unearthly calm that he’s managed to clothe himself in thus far. It’s the only reason he isn’t crying and screaming and begging and whimpering, letting the fear overtake him; he’s done that dance before, on the few occasions where it all got to be too much for him, and he is not meeting his death in such a fashion this time.

This early in life, no one would ever find death easy, though the Aesir look forward to it more than most, knowing that at any time they might be called upon to die. But not one man in this hall has ever had to consider _this_ kind of death—let alone see it coming months ahead of time, have it squirming in the back of his brain that long. Few Aesir deaths have that much warning.

Few are this unavoidable.

But is he not a son of Asgard? (He pushes back the automatic reply.) Can he not face his death at least as bravely as any of they?

The only thing he can think to do, right now, is to push Thor away from their father, just a little bit, to maybe make this easier to bear. And the truth will do that better than any lie; there is no pain so great as the unwanted truth.

“Father may have miscalculated,” he says, and gives it the slightest beat before he completes the thought, “in sending you after me, then. But I’m sure once he’s had a private conversation with you and explained—”

“My son,” Odin says tiredly, and Loki stops short, the ice in his veins like shards. This is it, the point where his father— _his kidnapper, his captor, his **brainwasher**_ —the only man beside his brother to ever hold a place in his heart—the man who summoned him here to cut him open with a wood-bladed dagger, to take from him that self-same heart—who had taken him as an infant and _raised him_ for this purpose—confirms every vicious theory that’s been squirming through his head for weeks now, ever since his search for a way to save Asgard led him to the forbidden books and the accursed spells he wishes he didn’t know.

Unwillingly, but unavoidably, he turns to look, to seek confirmation in those ancient, weary eyes.


	3. Struggles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You asked me once, when you had discovered your own heritage, why I did not tell you earlier. I hope, in this case, the answer is quite clear to you.”_
> 
> _Loki wants to crack down the middle and melt into the earth. It’s true, then: He was never meant for the throne. His father has raised him, from the very beginning, only to be a sacrifice. And the damnable thing is, even now, even knowing this, no matter how much he fights it, he can’t look at this man and see anything but his father. And still, somehow, yearn for his approval_.
> 
>  _A chuckle bursts from his lips, dry and choked. Of course Odin would hide this truth from him, even more than the others. Because so long as he didn’t know his fate, he wouldn’t fight it. Wouldn’t run from it_.
> 
>  _It’s all so pointless, now, the struggling_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Norns** (also called the Grey Sisters or just Sisters): Kinda like the Fates, but for Norse mythology. They can see (and/or partially determine?) the future. astolat makes use of them in _Chaos War_ , so I figured I'd follow suit for this piece.
> 
> If anyone has a more accurate idea of who would've been training the boys in combat skills, please let me know. "Huntmaster" seemed passable, but I don't know enough of Norse mythology (and a quick Google search says that Odin himself is also called the huntmaster, so maybe that's not the best choice).
> 
>  **Content Warnings:** _Lots_ of angst. Reference to suicide. Didn't spot anything major.

_For mercy’s sake, if I’m meant for the axe…just swing it_.

* * *

“I have sought out every possible alternative,” Odin says, low, and Loki’s heart clenches in his chest; he swallows heavily. “If we are to save Asgard—if this great kingdom is to survive at all, and to hold back the invaders that threaten all of the nine realms—then there is only one path to take, and you are the key to it all… my son.”

A sneer contorts Loki’s face at that, the greatest of all deceptions that his fath—that _Odin_ has ever leveled at him. He pulls back his shoulders, back ramrod straight and chin high, cloaking himself in his oldest, fondest daydreams of being able to stand proud in the court of his father, heaped with praise and honor and glory, having finally gotten it _right_ , finally proven that he was, after all, a true son of Asgard.

It’s the last time he will ever harbor such illusions.

“It’s true, then,” he says icily. “All I ever was—a useful relic, stolen from Jotunheim until you had need of me.”

“You are far more than that, Loki,” Odin murmurs, looking stooped and old, his face layered with sorrow. If Loki hadn’t had years to come to grips with Odin’s propensity for deception, he might have bought the act, felt some twinge in his heart; instead, his scowl deepens.

“How long have you known?” he demands. “When you told me that we were to defend the peace—that we were both ‘born to be kings’—was I a sacrifice even then? When you turned me over to the huntmaster for training, filled my head with tales of heroes, of glorious death in battle? Did you make me look forward to the possibility of Valhalla when you knew I was only to go under the knife?

“Or was it even earlier? Did it make you feel better, playing the role of the loving father, as if a happy childhood could somehow make up for the death that was to come?”

“Loki—”

“ _Did you know_ ,” he spits out, seeking Odin’s eyes again and suppressing tears through sheer willpower, “when you first turned me into **_this?_** ” Viciously, he slices one hand down his cheek, at the false skin that makes him look like one of them, feel like one of them, but can never allow him to _be_ like one of them. The one illusion that was never his choice, and the illusion he wishes more than anything else were in every detail as real as it seems.

“ _Brother_ —” Thor chokes, but can’t seem to get out any more words.

“I knew,” Odin says, holding Loki’s gaze as if Thor isn’t even in the room. “Before you were even born… I knew that one day we would need such a spell. I’d sought out the Sisters’ wisdom about various matters, matters of long-term consequences, and that was one of the details they provided, early on.”

Loki wants to crack down the middle and melt into the earth. It’s true, then: He was never meant for the throne. His father has raised him, from the very beginning, only to be a sacrifice. And the damnable thing is, even now, even knowing this, no matter how much he fights it, he can’t look at this man and see anything but his father. And still, somehow, yearn for his approval.

Odin pulls in a deep breath. “I was young,” he admits, “and naive, as so many young kings are. Lest you wonder why I was so harsh on your brother, once I realized that he was headed down the same path, and sent him to learn the lessons much earlier than I did. At the time I first heard the prophecy, the life of a frost giant did not mean much to me.

“But when I lifted you from the floor of that temple?” he continues. “No, my son. I was not thinking of the prophecy that day. Or, if it crossed my mind, it was for the giants I’d slaughtered in that war, and how pointlessly they had lost their lives. I did not think of it in relation to you. Even the wisest cannot see, at all times, how all things interconnect.

“And so I took you home, and raised you as my own, truly hoping that one day you could bring an end to the strife between our people. It was only later— _decades_ later—that I stopped to consider what the prophecy could mean for you.”

Loki swallows heavily. “What… what made you…” He can’t finish the question.

“You were so proud that day,” Odin says softly, a mix of fondness and misery in his eyes. “So excited to show me a new trick that your mother had taught you. A spell… your first illusion.”

Blinking back the threat of tears again, Loki recalls that moment, little more than sleight of hand yet with the barest hint of magic to it. He’d managed to plant one of his drawings on his fath—on _Odin_ ’s parchments, while Odin was still admiring the illusory drawing in Loki’s hand for the few seconds that Loki could hold it together before it vanished.

If his father’s smile had faltered when the trick was revealed, Loki doesn’t remember that detail.

“In that moment,” Odin continues, “I knew, with ice in my heart, that you were to be a frost giant sorcerer… that your mother had unwittingly set you on the path to fulfill the terms of the spell. In trying to let you hold your own as a son of Asgard, she had, perhaps, doomed you to that fate. And still I hoped that I was being too morbid in my thoughts… and so I sought out the council of the Grey Sisters. They only confirmed it.”

Gut clenching, Loki fights to stay upright, to stay in charge of the little piece of this that he can still master, the reactions of his own body. Thin as the veneer of control might be.

Suddenly he can’t look at Odin anymore; he drops his head, shoulders trembling with tension. He doesn’t want to look anywhere else, catch anyone’s eye, have to deal with their emotions on top of his own, but dropping his gaze like this feels _wrong_. It goes against one of the earliest lessons that his father ever taught him.

 _You are a future king. No matter what weighs on your heart, no matter how heavy the sorrow, you must hold your head high and let the people see you unbowed_.

Had Odin been thinking of this day, at the time? The day that Loki would be marched to the altar? All the many lessons that the All-Father has taught him over the years, entirely suspect in the light of today’s revelation; they had merely been ways to prepare the lamb for the slaughter.

A lamb is innocent. He’s far from innocent. But still. He _was_ innocent, once, and, even then, his fate had already been decided.

“ _Why the hell didn’t you tell us sooner?_ ” Thor roars suddenly, making Loki jump; he’d almost forgotten that his brother was there. “We could have figured something out—come up with some other plan—”

“Do you think I have been idle, all these centuries?” Odin asks, low enough that even Thor shuts up to hear him. “Why do you think I have such a mastery of even the darker arts? Why have I collected so many tomes, sometimes retreated to my studies for years at a time? Dozens of times, I have journeyed back to the Sisters, paid whatever price they required, asked if there is some other course that I might pursue—some other way that Asgard might be saved. _Any_ other cost to be paid. The answer has never changed, these thousand years.”

Loki’s mouth works briefly; he swallows. “You…” and he wants to hold onto that anger, that sense of betrayal; he wants to hate this man for holding him to this course. “You tried…?”

“You are my son; of course I tried. Do you think I’d leave you to such a fate without seeking out some other possibility? Time and again I varied the question, tried to find the loophole, the alternative. But there is none.

“You asked me once, when you had discovered your own heritage, why I did not tell you earlier. I hope, in this case, the answer is quite clear to you: I could not shoulder your burden, but I could at least ensure, for as long as the fates allowed me, that you were unaware of it, and so did not live in despair of your future any longer than you must.”

A chuckle bursts from Loki’s lips, dry and choked. Of course Odin would hide _this_ truth from him, even more than the others. Because so long as he didn’t know his fate, he wouldn’t fight it. Wouldn’t run from it. If he had known—if he’d had more than a few months to work it out—would he have preferred to take his own life, by his own hand, just to escape the fear, the dread? Or to spite the ones who’d raised him for this purpose? If he’d known before the war was on their doorstep and the cost of refusal so undeniable—

Tears blur his eyes; the heat seems to be leaving his limbs, until everything is heavy and distant, his energy all but gone. It’s all so pointless, now, the struggling.

Dully shaking his head, Loki quietly asks, “Was there ever anything in your heart for me?”

He doesn’t look up to see Odin’s expression, but the words, when they come, are laden with deep sorrow that Loki wishes he could take for true. “I do not expect you to believe me,” the All-Father says slowly, each word carefully enunciated and sounding like a death-knell. “However I have wronged you, it cannot be cleared up in the space of time that stands before us. The fact remains that I do love you, and I have loved you… and not all of my love can spare you from this fate.”

Too weary to laugh or protest, Loki just takes that in, letting the words flow through him without taking root. If Odin wants to play this up for the crowd, so they can feel a little better about it, let him; Loki can’t fight it anymore.

“I must ask it of you,” Odin continues. “If you walk away, then Asgard falls.”

Loki scoffs, but it sounds hollow. “Walk away?” he asks, drawing a shaky breath. “As if you’d let me _walk away_ , knowing the consequences if I don’t go under the knife.” Maybe Thor would hold the others off for a bit if Loki tries to run, but— “If this were optional, you wouldn’t have sent the nets for me.”

“The decision could not be delayed,” Odin says heavily. “And the full weight of it must be examined. Where else but in these halls could you face the warriors whose lives will soon be forfeit? The empty chairs of those who have already died?” He spreads his arms, and Loki closes his eyes, trying to stay aware of the manipulation, trying to let it burn bright in him still, because it’s all the strength he has left to cling to.

“We cannot hold back the sea of invaders indefinitely,” Odin continues. “Of all the men who stand in these halls, not a one of them would hesitate to claim his ground and die defending it. But it is not enough. Not against this foe. Our warriors fall, and those whom they were protecting—the men and women, children and babes in arms—are consumed.”

This truth, the full weight of the decision, is sobering enough that not even Thor can protest it. And Loki has known for a good three years that they weren’t gaining any ground. That slow march of inevitability— _Iphigenia_ in different guise.

“My son,” Odin says, “if not even the Wyrddenning escaped your notice, then surely you have been studying this matter as fervently as I. And if you had come to any other conclusion, then we would not still be discussing this. This spell is the one possibility that offers any hope. And yet—”

Odin rises, not without difficulty, and strikes the butt of Gungnir on the ground, a cold fury in his eyes. Trembling anew, Loki cannot look away. “I would sooner see our people perish entirely,” Odin says, “and with honor, than win protection through an unwilling sacrifice. My oath upon it. So if you choose to value your own life over all of these, then that will be the end of it; you may go, and find some new place to hide, and perhaps win for yourself some few more years than the rest of us.”

Some few more years. Because after the last Aesir warrior has journeyed to the halls of Valhalla, then the shining ones will bleed out beyond the borders of Asgard, unchecked—a devouring horde, and no corner of the nine realms will be safe from them.

If Loki buys his freedom at such a price, he’ll win a petty prize indeed.

Sinking wearily back onto the throne, Odin sighs and shakes his head. “I do not know what is in your heart, my son. If you are willing to do this, then we shall start the ritual immediately; it should not be delayed. But should you choose to do otherwise, then do us the courtesy of saying so straight out. No more tricks. Not here.”

It takes a moment for Loki’s throat to work enough for him to swallow. “No more tricks,” he agrees, and takes a deep breath, straightening up to his full height. A fleeting thought crosses his mind—cloaking some other poor soul in his form, leaving _them_ to take the knife—and he realizes that, because of his well-deserved reputation, there’s really only one way to assure Odin that he’s not trying to wiggle free. Besides, it might quiet the little part of him that still wants to run away, if even the freedom to change his mind is taken from him.

“If even the Norns are against me,” he says, “then so be it. I accept this fate. And for your peace of mind,” he adds, with a tilt of his head, “you might as well outfit me with those enchanted shackles that I found so fetching the _last_ time I was brought here in chains.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm halfway through my MCU run, leading up to _Endgame_ : _Thor_ , _The Avengers_ , and _Thor 2_ are down, and we might be watching _Age of Ultron_ tonight (if only for me to get acquainted with Magneto's kids, even if they can't be called Magneto's kids... and I always did think Vision was an interesting character). Then it's just _Ragnarok_ and _Infinity War_ and I'll be ready to go! (I might squeeze in some films from the other facets of the franchise -- and I _have_ seen _Guardians of the Galaxy_ \-- but the Thor films are the ones I'm actually interested in, at the moment.)
> 
> Oh, and the first episode of _No Retakes_ (Thor) is up. I spend half an hour trying to describe the plot of a two-hour movie. With all the weird meandering journeys my brain takes while coming up with weird connections between elements. I'm not adding a direct link because of AO3's policy on commercial content (even though, technically, I don't yet have ads), but it shouldn't be difficult to find on YouTube if you cared to look.
> 
>  **Latest Find:** YouTube has a bunch of MCU clips dubbed in Japanese. I have downloaded every Japanese Loki vid I can find. Would love to own the DVDs, even if I had to jailbreak a Playstation or whatever to be able to play them.
> 
>  **Latest Fic:** [Bargaining](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108212/chapters/2230369) (proantagonist) is an utter heart-wrencher, and turns out to be shockingly close to this fic in terms of certain key elements. While technically I had most of this fic put together before I got pointed at that fic, I'm gonna put it as inspiration anyway, because more people should read it. If you can handle the angst and the horror and the inevitability of it all. Bring tissues.


	4. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His shoulders are trembling. He can’t seem to make them stop. Can’t seem to breathe_.
> 
>  _Then Thor’s arm is around his shoulder, pulling him in tight, and his other hand is on Loki’s neck, turning him until his head is buried in Thor’s shoulder, and he’s clinging to Thor like a child, no longer caring about that precious dignity or what anyone else thinks of him in his final hour_.
> 
>  _“And they think_ me _the brave one,” Thor murmurs against his hair_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warnings:** This is where it gets gruesome, near the end, and I don't pull any punches! If you've a weak constitution, you can skip about four big paragraphs, down to the last two tiny paragraphs (it should be obvious when it's about to happen).
> 
> Other than that, it's a giant angst-fest, and includes multiple panic attacks. And readers with claustrophobia might find multiple sections hard to handle. But mostly it's just Loki and Thor talking while they wait for the ritual to get set up.

_"And I contemplate how pathetically stupid I am for allowing the man who kidnapped me from my homeworld as an infant and lied to me all my life to use me so yet again, in exchange for nothing but the hope of a few crumbs of false paternal approval_.

 _"But when you asked how I changed my mind again, why I chose to save Asgard instead of destroy it… the answer has always been_ you _."_

* * *

The weight of the shackles as the guards attach them makes this feel all the more real; his stomach’s roiling, and the room seems to spin a little. He fights to master himself, and eventually it settles down again.

The walk down into the deep places below the palace is silent, despite the relative haste; every moment they delay is perhaps another home, another village at the outskirts consumed by the pillaging hordes. Thor walks beside him, as speechless as Loki has ever seen him, as if knowing that nothing he could possibly say right now could make any of this any better.

Staring down at his cuffs, with oddly low emotion, Loki recalls, too vividly, the first time he ever bore these cuffs. The first time he’d known how _wrong_ it felt to have his magic—all that power, that freedom, that hard-won mastery over the forces that shape the cosmos—cut off from him, smothered beneath the enchantments… unbearably muffled and unreachable, a cage far worse than the one they’d forced his body into.

That time, at Thor’s behest, he’d had his powers back within a year. This time… they’ll never be restored to him. He’ll never again change form, or cast an illusion. Never even sense the magical forces that run through the air, the soft, invigorating tingles and sudden, intense shocks that most Aesir remain wholly unaware of even though, on a plane so gifted as Asgard, it’s literally _everywhere around them_. And he’ll never feel that power again.

Somehow that’s worse than the thought of his oncoming death.

 

Once in the cave—a chamber so deep that natural light cannot reach it even by reflection, and that no hands, mortal or immortal, have ever tried to shape—Loki is pushed to the sidelines while the seidkonur prepare the ritual. By one of the damp walls, he finds a small outcropping and sits quietly, trying to ignore all the details; they’re there in his head, given how often he pored over the Wyrddenning’s coolly dispassionate description, but right now it’s easier not to think about it, to leave it all indistinct and remote for as long as he can pretend that it has nothing to do with him.

When Thor takes a seat beside him—not so much seated as leaning back against a natural pillar—Loki can’t even look in his direction. His nervous energy has to go somewhere, though, and he starts worrying one hand with the other, thumb rubbing at his palm until he’s half sure he’s leaving bruises.

Not like he’ll live long enough for that to matter.

After a while, Thor takes a deep breath. “Do you want Mother here?”

Loki freezes.

It takes him several long, shuddering breaths to get control of himself enough to answer. “I couldn’t bear it,” he chokes out, with an effort. “And she shouldn’t—have to see.” Not this. He’s doing this to spare her, to spare her and Thor both; it’s a detail he can cling to right now. “Would you… tell her…”— _he can’t, he can’t do this_ —“would you make sure she knows—” More quick breaths, his chin trembling. Overwhelmed, he squeezes his eyes shut; the lower level of stimulation is somewhat easier to bear.

“I wasn’t forced,” he concludes, when he can. “I _chose_ to do this,” and he is almost to the point where he believes that, even though there was no other viable option. “She’ll believe you,” he adds, the corner of his lips twitching up; “you, of all people, couldn’t lie about something like this.” Odin can pretend, to a purpose, but Thor, from his earliest childhood through to now, has never been anything but straightforward—even to his own detriment. Thor alone can settle any lingering doubts that Frigga might have about her son’s true fate.

Thor leans in close to his ear. “It’s not too late to stop this,” he murmurs. “I could—”

With a quick wave of his hand, Loki cuts him off, before that line of thought can go any further. “Please don’t make this any harder on me, brother. It’s decided. It’s done.”

The silence stretches a bit longer.

It’s stifling in here, the thickness of heavy, stale air getting covered over with a cloying incense; his head is beginning to ache. Suddenly he wants, more than life itself, to see the grass again, the sky. The Bifrost and the waters beneath it. To race across the fields on horseback, breathing deep of fresh, clean air. Sights and smells and freedoms that he will never know again.

“Talk to me,” he chokes out.

Thor hesitates. “About what?”

His next breath is almost a sob. “ _Anything_ ,” he breathes. “Midgard. Childhood. What it’s like to actually have friends. What you hope to be like when you finally take the throne. Give me something to take my mind off this, _please_.”

“I… I can’t think what to—”

“How the war has been going, then,” Loki grinds out. Then he closes his eyes, as if already in pain, and tilts his head back the smooth, damp wall behind them. “In three years, I’ve thought of little else… but I couldn’t find anything that would help, no matter how far I reached, what kind of resources I tracked down—”

“You’ve been… even in exile?” Thor asks, incredulously.

Loki shoots him a look, letting the annoyance buoy him up for a moment. “Asgard is my _home_ ,” he says acidly. “Regardless of whether I’m welcome here, or not, at any given time. And _you_ clearly weren’t managing to guard it on your own. I spent a year ignoring the war, thinking it impossible that you’d be overrun by seemingly mindless monsters, however many might be lining up against you. When the year had passed and the war was still ongoing, I had to reevaluate my impression of the shining ones and their chances of defeating us… so I started looking into the matter, from a distance.”

There is silence between them, for a long moment. Loki’s headache is getting worse, claustrophobia beginning to scrabble a bit at the back of his mind, but he makes himself keep breathing, as evenly as he can manage, letting go of the need to escape this place. The need to see sunlight or the sparkling waters again. It’s another small yet deliberate surrender, and it… helps. A little.

Thor swallows heavily. “Brother, if ever in my life I have made you feel as though I do not consider you a true son of Asgard… I am wretchedly sorry for it.”

A hoarse chuckle breaks loose from Loki’s throat, tears pricking at his eyes. “I don’t even know how real it is,” he confesses. “Whether this is nature, or choice, or simply another one of Odin’s schemes.” His shoulders rise, and he can’t help but shrink in a little; the shackles make it awkward to hug himself, but he manages what little he can. “If he’d told me from the beginning what I was—what I _am_ —would Asgard still be this important to me? If not for Odin, would I be able to walk away and let Asgard fall?” He draws in a deep, shuddering breath.

Before Thor can even consider an answer, Loki shakes his head, lightly. “I’ve been bound to this destiny since before I was born, and I know not how much of that was in his hands. I know only that… I am fully aware that he has _played_ me all my life, and that awareness has changed… everything, and yet… and yet… letting Asgard fall just to save myself seems as unthinkable as”—he reaches for an apt simile—“as pushing Sif to the front lines, and withdrawing, leaving her to be run through.” He bows his head again, and goes back to worrying one hand with the other. “I just… brother, please… help me picture what I’m trying to _stop_.”

Haltingly, at first, Thor does: He describes the shining ones, the rampages—the way they’ve overwhelmed the forces of Asgard at every turn, forcing a retreat from every engagement, without exception. Four long years and countless warriors whose bodies they couldn’t even retrieve. Friends he’s seen overrun and torn in half, devoured right in front of him. It’s not the sort of tale he’d be describing around the campfire, or during a victory feast; it’s the details that he would normally leave out or minimize, and in this case there’s no positive outcome against which to balance the sacrifice. At most, a few times, they’ve managed to hold back the shining ones long enough to evacuate some portion of the innocent lives who would otherwise have been destroyed. A difference, yes, but an insignificant one; their efforts just delay the inevitable.

As the tale goes on, Loki finds his muscles unbunching, bit by bit; the sorrow at losing their people takes hold, sapping him of some of the nervous energy that has been pent up inside him since before Thor tracked him down. He feels the _rightness_ of this choice, the lives he’ll be saving. The new generations of champions who will grow and thrive after he’s secured their future. The children who will run freely through the grass, enjoying sunlight and fresh air, because he’s surrendering to this death in this dead air in this cave. Giving up everything on their behalf.

All the Aesir. All Asgard. It’s too much, too big to grasp, the import of what he’s doing. As Thor continues describing the movements of armies, Loki draws his attention back to his brother, not the words but the voice: the deep concern he has for his fellow warriors, the fears and worries that he’s lived with since they’d started retreating, the honor he bestows upon every fallen comrade. Loki considers just how far Thor has come, in such a short time—a mere handful of years—from brash arrogance to humility, empathy, integrity, and the beginnings of hard-earned wisdom. Whatever fears Loki used to harbor, honest or not, have evaporated: When it’s time for Thor to ascend to the throne, he’ll be a leader worth following anywhere.

Yet without Loki’s sacrifice—

“My prince?” It’s one of the seidkonur, and Loki’s eyes widen as his stomach turns to lead; he starts to rise, but she waves him off again. “We need a few strands of your hair.”

“Oh,” he manages, when he’s able to make his throat work again. “O-of course.”

He inclines his head, and feels the slight pain-prick as she pulls a few out by the roots. When she returns to the ceremony, Loki can’t make himself sit up straight again. The shackles are heavy, but they’re feathers compared to the weight of what he’s about to go through—what he’s about to let them do to him.

His shoulders are trembling. He can’t seem to make them _stop_. Can’t seem to _breathe_.

Then Thor’s arm is around his shoulder, pulling him in tight, and his other hand is on Loki’s neck, turning him until his head is buried in Thor’s shoulder, and he’s clinging to Thor like a child and sobbing, almost soundlessly, into his cloak, no longer caring about that precious dignity or what anyone else thinks of him in his final hour. They all despise him anyway; does a little lack of courage near the end make any difference?

“And they think _me_ the brave one,” Thor murmurs against his hair.

It takes a few moments for that to register. “What?”

Thor’s hand strokes along Loki’s hair, a way he hasn’t comforted Loki since they were small children. “Asgard will not forget what you’ve done here,” Thor says, his conviction ringing through every syllable. “Surrendering everything in its defense. Maidens will weave tapestries that honor your exploits. Fathers will use you as an example of what it means to be a true son of Asgard. The tales of your courage will be the highlight of feasts, sung around the great hall for millennia.”

A legacy. It’s no more real to him than the thought of the people he’s saving, and no antidote to the tears. Besides—“Courage?” he mumbles, still shaking. “Do I seem b-brave to you?”

“You stand between Asgard and the worst enemy we have ever faced; you know the outcome of your decision, and it terrifies you, and yet you hold your ground. An act of greater courage than all my fearless charges into battle.” For a moment, Thor squeezes him tight.

“You’ve lived with fears I can’t even imagine,” he continues, not letting Loki go, “and they’ve driven you to some dark places, to desperate action, but… brother, you have fought through the pain and the horror and come out the other side, broken but still surviving. And despite all of that, and despite feeling that you are an outsider and not truly one of us, never accorded the honor that you have deserved… here, in our darkest hour, though brought here unwillingly, and given the chance to refuse, you lay down your life for our people. What greater courage could be asked of you?”

Trembling against Thor’s chest, hemmed in by the comforting strength of his brother’s arms, Loki lets his body go limp, as if he’s a kid again and Thor is coaxing him back to sleep after a nightmare. Just for this moment, he can—

Thor’s arms stiffen around him, and Loki clutches him tighter, bruisingly tight, for the one moment he allows himself before steeling himself and pulling back, tucking his emotions away as best as he can despite the tears that still stream down his cheeks. With tense shoulders, he turns to see the seidkona, and knows from her expression that this time she’s not here for some small part of him. Not this time.

“My prince,” she says again. “The spell will not hold long.”

Nodding slowly, he gets to his feet, bracing one hand in Thor’s cloak to keep from falling over. Behind him, Thor rises as well, and lays a strong hand on his shoulder, grounding him just enough that he’s able to take a few deeper breaths and feel his shoulders relax, just a little bit, like finally shaking the chill after a good dunk in a winter lake. Or maybe it’s the other way around: like being out in the snow so long that you’ve passed the point of shivering, because your body no longer has the strength to fight what it cannot escape.

Turning, he grasps Thor’s hand. “Will you—will you watch, brother? Will you stay where I can see you? I-I don’t… if I need to borrow strength, I might—”

“I’ll stay,” Thor avows. “You’re not going through this alone.”

Loki turns again to the seidkona. “What must I do?” he asks, his voice cracking. He’s read the spell so many times, but it feels easier to just go along with what he’s told than to try to remember, to take any initiative at all right now.

She motions toward the center of the room, where two altars have been set up: a large flat one of uncarved stone, and a much smaller one of smooth black stone, indented; in the indentation there is already a pile of embers smoldering. On the edge of the altar sits a vial of dark green liquid, which Loki recognizes as a potent ichor, strong enough to dissolve even the glass that holds it, but for powerful spells protecting it—spells that normally he’d feel, blinding in their intensity. But he feels nothing, not with his magic muffled this way.

As he forces his legs—no longer trembling, though oddly weak—to take him toward the altar, he tries to recall if any of the instructions said to drink, or force-feed, or to burn flesh. But surely he would have internalized that detail; his imagery had been vivid enough that it could hardly have escaped him, would surely have fed into the nightmares that beset him even during the hours of waking. He’s able to put that thought aside; there’s enough horror here without him inventing any new details.

Thor balks at the chains that hang off the altar: “He’s already accepted this—must you humiliate him further??”

Loki can’t help but smile at the thought of Achilles, standing in defense of Iphigenia, despite the pointlessness of it all. Regardless of the many disagreements between him and Thor, even the times they’ve very nearly killed each other, his brother truly is his ally. The warmth in his chest is unexpected, and reminds him of exactly why he’s choosing to do this.

Taking a breath, he turns, and lays a gentle hand on his brother’s arm; Thor stills. “No matter how willing I might be,” Loki says calmly—and going through this, accepting the necessity, is not precisely the same as being _willing_ —“the reactions of my body are going to be outside my control. If I cannot even master myself _before_ the ritual, there is little hope of that once it’s begun. And this will all be for naught, if my struggles cause their blades to go awry.”

Then his eyes fall to his sleeve, caught beneath the shackle, and suddenly there’s no air left in the room. He hadn’t thought—before, he hadn’t stopped to think, just—but his tunic, his coat, they’re going to—the ichor will stain, his mother won’t be able to get it out, she’ll, she’ll have to—she’ll _see_ what’s been done to him, and—or they won’t give his clothes back at all, they’ll lie here or get burned up and Frigga will have nothing left to—

“Brother,” Thor says, squeezing him by the shoulder, and he looks up, lost, at Thor’s face, the concern written across it.

“My clothes—” he chokes out, unable to put two thoughts together to deal with the enormity of his alarm. “Mother—”

Then Thor, who at his best was never one for reading between the lines or picking up on the nuances of social engagements, seems to get it: His eyes go wide, and he glances at Loki’s clothing, where it’s pinned down under the enchanted metal on both wrists.

They can’t take the time to remove the shackles now, but a short conference provides a solution, enough of one to calm Loki down: Thor slides a knife along the seams, parting sleeves and shoulders until the rest can be pulled free. While removing his boots, Loki wonders about his breeches—he wants Frigga to get all of it, the last thing he can leave her beside his absence, and the humiliation of being naked hardly stacks up against that goal—but then there’s red fabric being pressed into his hands, and he glances up to see Thor, capeless.

Swallowing, he nods his thanks, and wraps the cape around his waist, ties it; Thor holds it in place while Loki removes his breeches.

And then there’s nothing left to do but stretch himself out across the altar.

The stone is cool as he lays back against it—not uncomfortable, not for him, a slight blessing amidst all of this. When the guards begin to bind him there, he struggles to master his impulses: _writhe away, fight back, escape_. The bindings pull tight, stretching and constricting him both, until he cannot twist himself and almost cannot breathe.

“Father?” he calls out suddenly, desperately. “Are you—”

“I’m here, my son,” Odin rumbles, and lays a hand on Loki’s hair and a kiss on his forehead; Loki cannot see his eyes, and cannot think what expression they might hold. “My son.” Maybe it’s better that he can try to imagine love there, instead of the obvious: satisfaction at having spent a millennium raising a sacrifice who would walk willingly to the altar.

The hand doesn’t leave him, though, and Loki thinks of the ichor that will soon be splattering his father’s cloak; maybe at one point he could have found it just, or poetic, that Odin All-Father bear the stains upon himself, but he can’t care about that right now. Closing his eyes, he nods, trembling. “Then I— I’m ready.”

The seidkonur surround him, the only thing he can see, their shadowed faces and the knife—so similar to the blades he’s used in battle, used to carve his enemies. Only this one’s made of wood, and he recalls the stipulations: new oak, without blemish, from an acorn hand-picked that has never touched the ground; smooth-carved by moonlight, imbued with spells to harden and sharpen. At the very least, the cuts will be fast and easy. Comparatively.

“My king?” one of the women asks, the one holding the knife, and Odin’s hand tightens in Loki’s hair; is that emotion, Loki wonders distantly, or just one more binding to keep him still?

“It must be done,” Odin says solemnly. “He lays down his life willingly; though you be the instrument of his death, you are blameless in the eyes of Asgard.”

So much ceremony, Loki thinks, to make the participants feel a little better about—

The blow is so hard that it drives the air from his lungs, so swift that he doesn’t feel the pain, at first. Then it blazes up through him, until there’s nothing else that he can feel, just the agony of the blade as it begins to saw through flesh and meat and bone, and the agony of not being able to draw breath, nor even scream. The icy ichor bubbles up and spills over, filling up his lungs, his throat, welling in his mouth.

His ribs are breaking, one by one, and he writhes against the bindings, unable to move himself by even a fraction of an inch. The pain keeps him anchored in the moment, unable to flee even slightly; no illusions, just this one moment, this one eternity. There’s a rushing sound in his ears, and his strength is going.

A great hiss fills the room, and noxious fumes fill his nose even though he’s not drawing breath. Startled, his eyes fly open, and he sees the cloud of smoke rising from the black altar. The squelch of the knife being drawn from his chest makes him want to heave, and the impulse gets worse when one pair of hands pulls from him a chunk of flesh, the broken shards of bone hanging down from it—and then a second pair of hands is carefully lifting out his heart, cutting through the last bindings that hold it to the rest of his body—

—it’s still pulsing, weakly, dripping ichor as it’s lifted toward the black altar and placed into the coals. It’s turning a dull blue-purple color, and the seidkona’s hands are frosty; Odin’s glamour no longer holds any sway. And the second that the heart leaves Loki’s body, Odin’s hand falls away, and the All-Father’s steps hasten away from him.

 _Cold-hearted bastard_ , the phrase runs through Loki’s head, but he isn’t surprised.

His sight is going, and all he can do is seek out one last glimpse of his brother’s horrified, grief-stricken eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! With possibly an epilogue after that. Don't be too quick to judge this piece before you've seen the full picture!
> 
> Also, with any luck, tonight's the night I get to introduce my mom to _Thor: Ragnarok_. Really think she's gonna enjoy it! Then it's just one more film between me and _Endgame_!


	5. Weight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His chest aches. More when he speaks, or tries to move, which makes it all too easy to just lie there, passive. Just breathing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warnings:** Pain, disorientation, medical recovery, angst. Also, I messed around with formatting for effect, in case that bothers anyone.

_"Easy for you to say," Loki said, savagely. "When have you had cause to fear for your place, or doubted your worth in his eyes?"_

_Thor sighed. "You would not have believed anything he had said, now or before, had it met all your hopes."_

* * *

 

 

 

heaviness

b r e a t h i n g

_wrongness_

lights

_a c h i n g_

wrongness

_something is wrong_

 

quiet voices

_chest aches_

sluggishness

 

Nothing exists besides the pain, but he can just relax into it, not fighting or writhing or screaming. It’s simply _there_ —his world, comforting in its familiarity.

It’s hard to breathe.

 

Sometimes there’s a heaviness on his head or his hand or his face.

Always there’s a heaviness in his chest.

it _hurts_

 

 _Valhalla_ , he muses, in one of his more lucid moments, _would not be like this._

Nor Freya’s fields. Nor any of the good places.

 

 

The pain is strong, and it takes up most of his awareness, but… it means that he exists. That he is _somewhere_. So perhaps monsters don’t melt into the ice like some of the old storybooks used to say.

 

 

 

Voices. Hushed tones… somber, like someone just died.

He did just die. Didn’t he? He saw them put his heart in the fire.

He saw it start to burn up.

Are they somber for _him_?

 

the voices fade before his grasp

 

 

 

Does dying take up a lot more time than anyone ever told him?

his chest aches

 

This couldn’t be more of the ritual, could it? They just needed his heart.

The spell never said anything about… trapping his spirit anywhere. Near as he can remember, and it’s so hard to try to remember.

Of course, the Wyrddenning’s accursed spells haven’t been used that often. And how would anyone even know what happens to the victim?

 

 

 

The first time he blinks his eyes open against the light—just briefly, enough to conclude that he really doesn’t want to try that again, not for a while—he spots the back of one of the guards.

Are they afraid of him escaping, even now?

Did something go wrong? Do they need to start over?

_Please don't make me go through that again_.

Is that what the heaviness is? The chains? He can’t tell.

 

 

 

Someone’s petting his hair, smoothing it down around his face.

Tears well in his eyes and drip down his cheeks, and he’s not sure why.

 

his chest aches

every shallow breath

hurts

 

 

 

boy

brave boy

my boy

 

 

everything hurts, inside and out

but he opens his eyes anyway

and blinks up into the dim light

flickering firelight

and a shadow over him

 

he only keeps them open for a few moments before he slips back to this half-sleep he’s been living in

 

but the voices come again

brave little boy

his chest aches

 

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a hand, petting his hair, slow and repetitive and comforting.

He swallows. It’s not so hard this time, though his mouth is gummy and tastes bad.

The heaviness is still there, the _wrongness_ , and he grimaces.

“Loki?” says a voice. Female. Not brash enough to be Sif.

A kiss on the forehead makes him smile a little, without meaning to. That _would_ be his mother.

He wants to say something— _tell me this isn’t Valhalla_ , because he couldn’t bear it if his mother were already dead, not after everything he’s done to save her. But it’s too much right now.

“Mother?” he manages, slurred, before his strength deserts him again.

“I’m here, Loki,” she says instantly. The hand keeps smoothing his hair; he lets himself enjoy that for a while.

 

Eventually, he tries again: “Did it work?”

His chest aches. More when he speaks, or tries to move, which makes it all too easy to just lie there, passive. Just breathing.

“You saved us all,” Frigga murmurs, and presses another kiss to his cheek. “My brave little boy. The rifts have closed.”

Tears are welling up in his eyes again, but he’s still not sure why, not even when they drip down into his ears. He’d been pretty sure that the spell would work; why would he have tried it, otherwise? It’s nothing to cry about.

 

“The… the fighting?”

“A few shining ones remain on our land, but your brother has led the charge to destroy them. I think it helps him, right now,” she adds, a little lower.

Loki can’t contain that many words all at once.

 

“How… long?”

“Three days since the ritual. You’ve been a long time healing, and still need more.”

He wants to laugh, but he hasn’t the strength, and it would probably hurt if he managed it. Healing? After they cut the still-beating heart from his chest? Absurd. Unless… Jotun _did_ need hearts, didn’t they?

 _Heartless monstrosity_.

Holding onto consciousness is too difficult; he drifts again.

 

 

 

His back hurts. Briefly, he struggles to rise, but soon gives up on that task as impossible. He manages, instead, to turn over, enough to lie on his side; his mother’s hands help him, then go back to smoothing his hair.

Even that small amount of effort leaves him panting and weak and nauseated, on the verge of passing out. The heart in his chest beats wildly.

Which would imply that he still has a heart, so that question’s settled. Except… not.

 

He recalls the last sight before his eyes closed: His brother looking down at him, stricken. Watching his little brother get carved up and knowing that he could do nothing to stop it.

“Is Thor okay?” Loki manages.

“I haven’t heard any news to the contrary,” Frigga says calmly. “He leads the charge against the remnants of the shining ones. I wouldn’t fear for him.”

Right. He remembers her saying something like that earlier. Of course Thor would be out doing something useful; it’s not his way to sit about and fret. He’s always turned his anxiety into action.

“And… Father?”

The petting goes on, unabated. But there are no more words.

 

 

Loki’s chest _aches_.

“Where’s Father?” he croaks, his mind refusing to reduce the man to merely _Odin_ again.

“He loved you,” Frigga says, her voice filled with a weary tenderness. “Whatever else you might think of him, he truly did love you.”

 

“Where’s Father?” he asks again, small and confused and desperate, his eyes welling too much to see. The warm tears drip across his nose and down his cheek; he shivers.

“Your father was not always a good man,” Frigga murmurs. “And, for all his wisdom, not always a wise man. But he wanted the best for you. You were never a tool, or a toy, or some foundling to be graciously raised alongside his real boy. You were—you _are_ — _his_ boy.”

He’s breathing so fast and he _can’t breathe_.

“He used to tell me—and should have told you, many times, but he was never that sort of man—about his aspirations for you both. Not simply to be happy, but to be _good_. To become men who were strong, and wise, and brave, and who could be good to their own sons, in time. And he never gave up hope for you, Loki. Not once.”

Loki’s face crumples; he can’t ask it a third time. His heaving chest hurts _so_ **_much_**.

Frigga lifts his hand in hers, and presses a kiss to the back of it. Loki squeezes, the little that he can; the effort costs him.

 

“What happened?” he chokes out.

“It was the only thing he could do,” Frigga says gently. “He could not spare you, for all that he tried. But he could save you.” She pauses, and her voice warms a little. “There’s a letter, for when you’re well enough to read it.”

 

His mother shifts his hand onto his own chest, and presses it lightly, eliciting a little pain and soreness, but not much. He can feel the tears in his flesh, the stitches.

“Can you feel him?” she asks, her voice breaking. She kisses him again, her hand trembling on his, and then pulls away. He hears her footsteps cross the floor, and turns his head just in time to watch her shadow head down the hall.

 

For a while, he lies there, speechless, his hand still pressed to his own chest, to the hole where his heart used to be, now filled in and covered up and oh, it **_hurts_**. The pain of the knife was nothing compared to this.

When the knowledge hits him hard, he curls up like a child, covering his face with one hand, shaking and sobbing, the room filled with his keening cries

as his father’s heart beats strong inside his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… initially, I had meant this to be five chapters exactly, perhaps with an addendum of the letter that Odin wrote.
> 
> A dear friend persuaded me that this could use a bit more fleshing out, and so there may be an additional two chapters. However, they won't be posted for a while, so consider this fic to be on hiatus. If the details confuse you, let me know in the comments; I'll be glad to clear things up. I consider the overall idea to be complete at this point, so nothing's really a _spoiler_ per se.
> 
> At any rate, this would be my first "complete" Loki fic, a strong and emotional opening move, I should think. A hint of the type of material I can write when I get inspired to go dark. Most of my work gets dramatic but not this dark.
> 
> I've just finished watching _Thor: Ragnarok_ , so only _Infinity War_ stands between me and getting to see _Endgame_ in theaters. Which'll likely happen the third weekend, here, so I only have to avoid spoilers for a couple more weeks! Social Media Fast is ongoing, and I'm starting to avoid YouTube since the sidebar recommendations are more and more turning to Endgame spoilers (sigh). At least it gives me more time to work on my writing!
> 
>  **Upcoming Loki Fics:** I've got plans for one piece spun off from a Loki & Peter Parker fic, plus a couple pieces based on the Sakaar sex-slave idea. We'll see how those ideas develop; I do love working with weird sexual situations, but written in a non-titillating way. There's also a non-fic project that I'm gonna mostly stay mum about, because it's big and cool but I'm not sure if I can pull it off (I tend to aim big and never bring to fruition, and there's a lot on my plate already, so… here's hoping, anyway).
> 
> I'm planning to write at least a couple MCU-based [Five Moments of (Nonsexual) Intimacy](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1031027) fics; for those unfamiliar with that fic form, I created it to help writers focus on ways that characters can be intimate apart from sex (in a relationship with no sexual or romantic components, or as part of a sexual relationship but exploring ways to foster intimacy outside the bedroom). Basically, I got annoyed with people turning everything into sex, and wanted to remind people that "intimacy" is not simply a synonym for gettin' it on. Hence: Physical/Sensual Intimacy, Emotional Intimacy, Experiential Intimacy, Secret Sharing, and Vulnerability/Acceptance, five ways in which two characters can share a closeness that is not shared with the world at large. So, look forward to that as well. And if you'd like, give my fic form a spin! I'd love to see what sort of intimate moments you can come up with (for Loki or any other characters you like -- imagine a Cap & Bucky FMI fic or a "ways that Thor misunderstands Midgardian culture" FMI fic).
> 
> Heck, might provide a bit of an antidote for all of this trauma ^_^
> 
>  **For My POI Fans:** I haven't abandoned my POI fics by any means. I was even working on _Mirror_ a bit this week. No clue how soon one of my POI fics will update, by the following are high priority: _Everybody Wants Finch_ (because argh, schedule slip, whyyyyy), _Unseen Things_ (similar, but fewer people are waiting on my update to get their part published), _On the Other Side of the Mirror_ , _Buying Time_ , and _Nippitaty_.
> 
> The [Birthday Prompts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17256416) are still ongoing (May is Zoe Morgan month! or twins Mark Snow and John Greer), and my [Squirrel Reese and Chipmunk Finch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15123281) pic is two fills shy of me doing a better version -- anyone who makes a doll version of Nathan (and posts or sends me a photo) or a digital dress-up doll version of Nathan counts as a fill, if done before July 1st, 2019. So there's still hope ^_^


End file.
